The Soho Sublet, Excert
The Soho Sublet, Chapter 1
The sound of traffic was picking up outside, as the volume of horns honking and general hum of the city waking up drifted up from the street. I set down my cup of lukewarm coffee on the glass-top table and looked over at Travis. He was engrossed in the Times Sunday crossword puzzle, his left eyebrow curving upward ever so slightly in concentration. I leaned back on the sofa and flipped through yet another fashion magazine. Staring at the glossy editorials, it had become natural for me to critique the countless photos. Every now and then I would recognize one of the models at my agency and study the picture a little longer, reducing the model down to lines, shapes, and colors. If it was someone I liked, I would pick up my phone and send them a quick text, congratulating them. If it was someone I knew, but I didn’t like, I would send them a critique; I was a catty [k1] bitch that way. I had stopped at a photo of a woman with long red hair, she was barefoot with low-rise jeans on and nothing else. She was covered by the text spelling out the brand. I had paused letting out a loud sigh, catching a strand of my hair and sending it upward. It was the jean company campaign I had tried so hard to land, but no matter how hard I tried it was a ‘no.’ I had the long red hair and I argued that mine was natural unlike the drugstore box hers came from, but I didn’t have the right curves for this particular talent agent. I even tried sleeping with him and while that tryst lasted a couple weeks, it still didn’t get me the gig.
“Could you quiet down,” Travis spoke, breaking the silence.
“I literally didn’t say anything,” I replied, turning the page with more angst than required and causing the page to rip.
“Your sighs speak volumes of what you’re thinking, they can even be translated into different languages because they are so dense with dialogue.”[k2]
“Whatever,” I responded, resisting the urge to sigh in his direction.
“The classic ‘whatever,’ you need more coffee,” Travis commented, never raising his gaze from the crossword puzzle.
“Your right, I probably need something stronger.”
“Not what I said,” he responded.
“I have to be across town soon and I have no desire to be sober this afternoon.”
“By work you mean, strutting around in expensive clothes, shoes that are to die for, and hair and makeup for free?” He finally lifted his eyes and smirked in my direction.
“F-off,” I shot back and threw my magazine in his direction.
“You do need more coffee.” His gaze refocused once again on the crossword puzzle. I stood and wandered over to the window. It was the regular mess of taxis, pedestrians, and cyclists all fighting for the same square footage of space. A blue moving truck caught my eye.
“Travis, look.” The excitement in my voice caught his attention.
“Nice try. I’m not going to be distracted by you, I have almost finished this puzzle, in record time, I might add,” he boasted, proud of himself.
“I don’t care about your damn puzzle. It’s a moving van.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can read.”
“Our building?”
“Too early to tell,” I replied, my eyes now glued to this blue truck.
“It is the first of the month,” he said, putting down his puzzle and glancing at his watch.
“Kim will be over soon, if it’s really for this floor,” Travis commented, now getting up and standing next to me by the window. The Kim he was referring to, was Kim Valentine. She and her husband, Jay Valentine, lived in the large penthouse apartment at the end of the hallway. The space took up that entire side of the building. Rumor has it that was two apartments but they bought them both and turned it into one large space. The views from the apartment were, admittedly, spectacular. Kim was the resident ‘know-it-all’ in what suburbia would call ‘the neighborhood gossip,’ but we didn’t have a neighborhood. We had the top floor of the Kings Street Tower apartment building. It was a renovated building in the heart of the Soho district. Prices tags were well into the six figures for anyone looking to buy. Jay Valentine worked on Wall Street and was apparently very good at what he did, ‘Wolfe on Wall Street, minus all the drugs,’ Kim once said in describing her husband. Kim was a full-time volunteer, she spent most of her time sitting on two or three non-profit boards and volunteering for the Daughters of the American Revolution or as she affectionately called it D.A.R.
“Earth to Mel?” Travis was waving his hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, I just zoned out for a moment,” I replied, focusing back on the moving van.
“You know that apartment drives her crazy,” he continued.
“I know, she tells us every Monday night,” I responded, turning, and heading into the kitchen.
“Is this no longer interesting to you?” he asked, turning to look at me. Travis was a very attractive man; his dark complexion showed the tone in his body very well. He was smart, articulate, and very rich. He had inherited his fortunes from his mother when she passed away ten years ago and, as the last person left alive in his family, it was all his to do as he pleased. I didn’t know him yet, but he has told me he spent the first couple years—drinking, drugging, and sleeping his way through the five boroughs until he fell in love. He got sober, went to Columbia, got a degree, and started his photography business. That man broke his heart. After that he tried to live alone but he said the ‘ghosts of being an orphan’ would haunt him. He bought this place and took out an ad for a roommate. It had always been my dream to live in Soho and when I saw the ad and the reasonable rent, I instantly applied. We took up in a brother-sister relationship immediately and have been thick as thieves for the last year.
There was a knock on the door, I glanced at Travis as I finished the final touches on my Bloody Mary. Travis had a mischievous grin on his face as he sauntered to the door.
“I should have timed it,” he said under his breath as he passed me, I just shook my head and took a sip of my drink. It was just strong enough to cut the stress out of the rest of the day.
“Kim, it’s so nice to see you.” I could hear him at the door. He was using his ‘kiss-ass’ voice as I affectionately called it. You could tell because it was a little higher pitch than normal and he really took the time to enunciate each word.
“Travis.” Kim’s voice floated into the apartment. She leaned in for some air kisses from Travis and sauntered into the room.
“Melissa, a little early for alcohol?” she said, glancing at my Bloody Mary, her eyebrows raised in alarm. It used to boil my blood every time she used my full name. It was as if each syllable suddenly had the ability to remind me of my nearly empty bank account, my inability to be in a committed relationship, and that bag of Debbie snack cakes I secretly ate this morning before getting out of bed. I let out a large ‘huff’ sending that wayward strand of hair sailing, yet again, and took a big gulp of my drink. I don’t know why I still let it bother me, she had been doing it for over a year, but I had long decided if I wanted to be included in the weekly dinner, I had to suck it up. If I was a catty bitch then Kim was Queen Bitch. Prime example was last week, when she got the bellboy fired after dropping one of her packages. She claimed her rare and imported pears just didn’t taste the same. I still had a lot to learn from her so I would continue to let her call me by my full name and wallow silently in self-pity.
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TS Krupa
The sound of traffic was picking up outside, as the volume of horns honking and general hum of the city waking up drifted up from the street. I set down my cup of lukewarm coffee on the glass-top table and looked over at Travis. He was engrossed in the Times Sunday crossword puzzle, his left eyebrow curving upward ever so slightly in concentration. I leaned back on the sofa and flipped through yet another fashion magazine. Staring at the glossy editorials, it had become natural for me to critique the countless photos. Every now and then I would recognize one of the models at my agency and study the picture a little longer, reducing the model down to lines, shapes, and colors. If it was someone I liked, I would pick up my phone and send them a quick text, congratulating them. If it was someone I knew, but I didn’t like, I would send them a critique; I was a catty [k1] bitch that way. I had stopped at a photo of a woman with long red hair, she was barefoot with low-rise jeans on and nothing else. She was covered by the text spelling out the brand. I had paused letting out a loud sigh, catching a strand of my hair and sending it upward. It was the jean company campaign I had tried so hard to land, but no matter how hard I tried it was a ‘no.’ I had the long red hair and I argued that mine was natural unlike the drugstore box hers came from, but I didn’t have the right curves for this particular talent agent. I even tried sleeping with him and while that tryst lasted a couple weeks, it still didn’t get me the gig.
“Could you quiet down,” Travis spoke, breaking the silence.
“I literally didn’t say anything,” I replied, turning the page with more angst than required and causing the page to rip.
“Your sighs speak volumes of what you’re thinking, they can even be translated into different languages because they are so dense with dialogue.”[k2]
“Whatever,” I responded, resisting the urge to sigh in his direction.
“The classic ‘whatever,’ you need more coffee,” Travis commented, never raising his gaze from the crossword puzzle.
“Your right, I probably need something stronger.”
“Not what I said,” he responded.
“I have to be across town soon and I have no desire to be sober this afternoon.”
“By work you mean, strutting around in expensive clothes, shoes that are to die for, and hair and makeup for free?” He finally lifted his eyes and smirked in my direction.
“F-off,” I shot back and threw my magazine in his direction.
“You do need more coffee.” His gaze refocused once again on the crossword puzzle. I stood and wandered over to the window. It was the regular mess of taxis, pedestrians, and cyclists all fighting for the same square footage of space. A blue moving truck caught my eye.
“Travis, look.” The excitement in my voice caught his attention.
“Nice try. I’m not going to be distracted by you, I have almost finished this puzzle, in record time, I might add,” he boasted, proud of himself.
“I don’t care about your damn puzzle. It’s a moving van.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can read.”
“Our building?”
“Too early to tell,” I replied, my eyes now glued to this blue truck.
“It is the first of the month,” he said, putting down his puzzle and glancing at his watch.
“Kim will be over soon, if it’s really for this floor,” Travis commented, now getting up and standing next to me by the window. The Kim he was referring to, was Kim Valentine. She and her husband, Jay Valentine, lived in the large penthouse apartment at the end of the hallway. The space took up that entire side of the building. Rumor has it that was two apartments but they bought them both and turned it into one large space. The views from the apartment were, admittedly, spectacular. Kim was the resident ‘know-it-all’ in what suburbia would call ‘the neighborhood gossip,’ but we didn’t have a neighborhood. We had the top floor of the Kings Street Tower apartment building. It was a renovated building in the heart of the Soho district. Prices tags were well into the six figures for anyone looking to buy. Jay Valentine worked on Wall Street and was apparently very good at what he did, ‘Wolfe on Wall Street, minus all the drugs,’ Kim once said in describing her husband. Kim was a full-time volunteer, she spent most of her time sitting on two or three non-profit boards and volunteering for the Daughters of the American Revolution or as she affectionately called it D.A.R.
“Earth to Mel?” Travis was waving his hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, I just zoned out for a moment,” I replied, focusing back on the moving van.
“You know that apartment drives her crazy,” he continued.
“I know, she tells us every Monday night,” I responded, turning, and heading into the kitchen.
“Is this no longer interesting to you?” he asked, turning to look at me. Travis was a very attractive man; his dark complexion showed the tone in his body very well. He was smart, articulate, and very rich. He had inherited his fortunes from his mother when she passed away ten years ago and, as the last person left alive in his family, it was all his to do as he pleased. I didn’t know him yet, but he has told me he spent the first couple years—drinking, drugging, and sleeping his way through the five boroughs until he fell in love. He got sober, went to Columbia, got a degree, and started his photography business. That man broke his heart. After that he tried to live alone but he said the ‘ghosts of being an orphan’ would haunt him. He bought this place and took out an ad for a roommate. It had always been my dream to live in Soho and when I saw the ad and the reasonable rent, I instantly applied. We took up in a brother-sister relationship immediately and have been thick as thieves for the last year.
There was a knock on the door, I glanced at Travis as I finished the final touches on my Bloody Mary. Travis had a mischievous grin on his face as he sauntered to the door.
“I should have timed it,” he said under his breath as he passed me, I just shook my head and took a sip of my drink. It was just strong enough to cut the stress out of the rest of the day.
“Kim, it’s so nice to see you.” I could hear him at the door. He was using his ‘kiss-ass’ voice as I affectionately called it. You could tell because it was a little higher pitch than normal and he really took the time to enunciate each word.
“Travis.” Kim’s voice floated into the apartment. She leaned in for some air kisses from Travis and sauntered into the room.
“Melissa, a little early for alcohol?” she said, glancing at my Bloody Mary, her eyebrows raised in alarm. It used to boil my blood every time she used my full name. It was as if each syllable suddenly had the ability to remind me of my nearly empty bank account, my inability to be in a committed relationship, and that bag of Debbie snack cakes I secretly ate this morning before getting out of bed. I let out a large ‘huff’ sending that wayward strand of hair sailing, yet again, and took a big gulp of my drink. I don’t know why I still let it bother me, she had been doing it for over a year, but I had long decided if I wanted to be included in the weekly dinner, I had to suck it up. If I was a catty bitch then Kim was Queen Bitch. Prime example was last week, when she got the bellboy fired after dropping one of her packages. She claimed her rare and imported pears just didn’t taste the same. I still had a lot to learn from her so I would continue to let her call me by my full name and wallow silently in self-pity.
Sign up for my newsletter at www.tskrupa.com to read more!
Happy Reading!
TS Krupa
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